Horns blared in the morning, breaking through the thin haze that an early sun struggled to pierce.
Upstream were the wooden huts of wulvers. They stretched along the water, covered with moss in damp patches that detached them from the woods around. There were no fires but rows of dry fishes hung on simple racks, pots full of salt and cracked shells in the mud.
As the kobels approached, they could see their preys retreat on the other side of the stream. It was almost exhilerating to see them cross in a panic.
Against them the tribe had not been able to assemble even twenty warriors.
But Tunu was with them, so victory was assured. He was with the main group, twelve altogether while the rest played scouts. If there was to be a battle, those exhausted kobels, some still wounded from previous raids, would hardly be of help.
"Do your magic." Tunu turned to Etelet.
The young kobel nodded, moved past the edge of trees followed by his escort. In his leather clothes and bone ornaments, he clashed with the iron of the warriors that flanked him.
The wulvers were now waiting on the other side.
Not even wolves, they were closer to dogs, ugly beasts with ample blue or grey fur and muzzles so wrong, thinner and longer than a lizard could stand. Wulvers should have been strong: tales praised feral beasts that turned their enemies into themselves just by touch.
Instead, there were the trembling fishermen waiting their fate.
Etelet stopped on his side. It was just as uncanny to see him communicate with those foreigners without a single word. Yet they responded, crossed in turn carrying all the gifts they had prepared.
There were pelts, there was meat, woven baskets, shells and pearls, dyes and of course, salt.
All of it lay at Etelet's feet, along with the messengers kneeling to him.
He walked to them, put his hand on the shoulder of one. His thin red coat clashed with that thick fur. Only his reassuring demeanor did the talk. But he gestured to the warriors still remaining with their families, still armed.
So the warriors crossed and the kobels in turn broke from the trees to line up at their shaman's side. Among them Tunu, the scaled kobel whose sole sight had the wulvers terrorized.
Not a tribe ignored his might.
The warriors dropped their weapons at their victors, without a fight. They kneeled in turn, one by one. There were so few of them that Tunu suspected more hid among the rest.
It didn't matter.
A kobel played the horn. The scouts answered and for a moment the woods all around seemed alive. This was the signal. While they tied the warriors who had surrendered, those scouts came out, surrounding those fishermen.
Then, once the last was bound, Tunu gestured and the kobels plunged.
First they massacred those warriors, then rushed to pick everything they wanted. Above all they would catch the children. Children made for the best hostages. Children meant the tribe would not try to flee afterward.
Tunu watched with pride his kind pillage freely among that helpless crowd. The clamors and screams were almost as exciting as those of an actual battle.
Yet his heart hurt.
His heart craved flesh. It had been days and the champion still had refused that call. So it hurt! It was in pain, it lamented, pleaded, it would have brought tears to him if Tunu had not been used to that pressure.
He looked away, clenched his teeth and hid the weight on his chest.
"Hurry up!" Etelet called. "That's enough! Call everyone back!"
"Come on!" The warrior with the horn mocked. "We've barely been here a minute! Let us have our fun. Try it, go and join in! You'll see, you'll love it."
"I said enough! We want them to fear us, nothing more!"
And the apprentice turned to their champion.
"Tunu!"
Even without him reacting the warriors felt the mood change. Just bothering the legend was too much. So the kobel groaned and played the horn. The pillage waned before them.
"Beast lover..." He grumbled.
They had captives in ropes, forced them to carry gifts and stolen goods alike. Etelet exchanged gestures with the wulvers one last time, again to comfort, then the group departed.
It was the second time their enemies just let themselves get crushed. On their way back the warriors could not flatter themselves enough, the terror they brought, the might they had. They harassed the youth so they would move faster.
And of course they all praised their champion.
Tunu, however, was somber. Walking at the head he felt alone. And he still felt that tight heart hurting inside, as if wounded.
He was fearful of anyone realizing that weakness. He feared they would realize through his looks what he himself felt.
That he was growing weaker. Every time he denied the wyvern the warmth that had given him a feeling of invincibility faded a bit. No matter his fights, no matter his hoard, he was stagnating at best, regressing at worst.
If this continued, he thought, he would see his scales flatten, his claws weaken and the dreaded fur pierce back on his skin.
"It's okay, Tunu."
Etelet had come to walk at his side.
"I know you long for a real battle, but it's really for the best. And now we have salt! I'm salivating in advance."
"It doesn't take much to make you smile!"
"Well what more can I ask for? We've never been wealthier, nothing can threaten us anymore and there are still tribes left to plunder! There hasn't been a day we haven't feasted!"
"Scales."
That one word had the kobel apprentice go silent. He looked down at his feet, suddenly guilty, even more so in presence of the legend.
"How can I be happy if I can't bring you scales?" Tunu continued. "We're doing everything right, aren't we? And yet..."
"It's not your fault! It's ours. We're just... weak."
"Don't say that! We share the same blood!"
"Maybe some are more attuned to it than others."
"No!"
Tunu had stopped. Behind him the whole column was forced to a brutal halt. He had shouted and that perceived ire had even the kobels shuddering.
The scaled kobel seized the apprentice's shoulders.
"We're equals! One day you'll look like me, I promise! We all walk the same path. You can't give up, Etelet, we can't..."
"Tunu. It's fine. We can't all be legends. You are our pride, your success is all we need. Want it or not, you are exceptional."
"I don't want to be..."
His passion had turned to anger. For a moment he felt his hands tighten, feared hurting his friend and released him.
But somehow, talking about it had reduced the pain in his heart. As if words could stave off the wyvern. Now what hurt him was the thought of being alone. The only one different. The only one with those scales and horns.
If only another kobel, just one, just a single one could grow scales, it would bring him so much relief. To know his appearance was natural.
To know it was his blood and not...
"Come on." Etelet offered. "We still have a bit of walk before the mountain."
Questions and doubts no other kobel seemed to understand. That lingering need, whenever he talked, for Tunu to look into the other's eyes and seek how they saw him. If those sparks were of admiration, of excitement. Or fear.